


the whole world's on fire

by diana_hawthorne (stsgirlie)



Category: Last of the Mohicans (1992)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 22:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stsgirlie/pseuds/diana_hawthorne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knew, always, that she wasn't meant for a quiet life. (Revised first chapter as of 11/20)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic starts from when Cora, Alice, and Duncan meet Nathaniel, Uncas, and Chingachgook. It will continue past the end of the movie.

There’s a war on and she’s terrified yet invigorated. The bodies falling around her seem barely real at all, though the soldier in a puddle of blood at her feet had only this morning refilled her water canteen, though that one over there had held her horse when she dismounted. The three men before her—appearing so suddenly between the shots that still echo in the valley—are a startling contrast to the men she knows in England, to the men whose final breaths were taken on this hillside.

These men—two natives and one white man dressed like them—approach them, as Duncan watches them guardedly. The younger one shoos the horses away and Alice flies at him, screaming that they need them to get out. She herself cannot move; she feels frozen in time. Duncan asks impatiently, imperiously, why they lose the horses; the man replies that they’ll be heard for miles.

The conversation is antagonistic, sparse words pronounced patterned oddly, after grammatical structures not her own. It fascinates her, despite the situation they’ve found themselves in. Everything seems thrown in sharp relief; she realizes, now, just how asleep she had been in London.

She knew, always, that she wasn’t meant for a quiet life, that life in Portman Square held very little opportunities for her, that the most she could hope for herself there was a good place in society and the thrill of involving herself, however remotely, in real world affairs. But upon arrival in America—well, even before—she felt something different. The journey by ship was long and hard, but she was able to stand in the fresh sea air. There were few other civilians aboard; the war had stopped most travel to America. There was no one to scold. There was no land to be seen; she felt as those she was in the center of the world, and time seemed to stand still. She hadn’t felt like this since she accompanied her father to war.

When they landed in Boston and traveled south down to Albany, that freedom ended. She and her younger sister resumed their precious padded life in the luxurious confines of the patroon’s residence. While Alice spent her days indoors, she whiled away this waiting time tramping through the fields, looking eagerly out into the woods, waiting a summons from her father.

She had seen the face of war before; had served as a battlefield nurse several years previously, when accompanying her father the summer before she was presented at court. She curtsied to the royal family that winter with her mind filled with the men she had helped, knowing that the white gloves on her hands did nothing to obscure the blood of those who were lost to her. But what was being fought in European battlefields, over European ideas, had the stench of dead blood, of countries that no longer mattered. There was nothing left to fight for, she thought, just the same things over and over again.

They begin to walk, following these men without so much as introducing themselves. She stoops to pick up a fallen pistol; she can shoot, and she can use it if she needs to. The weight of the flintlock drags her pocket down and she can feel it beat heavily against her thigh as they continue along the trail.

Alice is tired, she knows. She’s not used to this land, this endless tramping through forests. It’s a much different terrain than the streets of London or even the Scottish countryside. Even the country surrounding Albany is not this rough. They keep quiet for quite some time in the forest, following the lead of their new guides. When they reach the river, Duncan, obviously ill at ease over this situation, speaks up.

‘Scout, I’d like to thank you for your help. How much further is it?’

‘Night and a bit,’ replies the white man. ‘That Huron captain back there…’

‘The guard? He’s a Mohawk.’

‘He’s no Mohawk, he’s Huron,’ he states, and his impatience catches her attention. ‘What other reason would he have to murder the girl?’

‘What?’ Duncan responds, appalled. The scout looks back at them.

‘Dark-haired one.’

She bristles to hear herself described thus, though she maintains a calm expression.

‘Miss Cora Munro. Murder her? He never set eyes on her before today. She’s only been here a week.’

‘No blood vengeance? No reproach or insult?’

‘Of course not!’ Duncan pauses. ‘And how is it you were so nearby?’

‘Came across the war party. Tracked ’em.’

‘Then you’re assigned to Fort William Henry?’

‘No.’

‘Fort Edward, then.’

‘Nope. Headin’ west, to Can-tuck-ee.’

‘I thought all our colonial scouts were in the militia. The militia is fighting the French in the north.’

‘I ain’t your scout, and I sure as hell ain’t in no damn militia.’

Duncan lunges forward, insulted, and she lays her hand on his arm, pulling him back. She feels the comforting weight of the pistol against her thigh, knowing she will use it if she must. They walk on in silence.

They come across very few signs of human inhabitation as they begin their trek, only one—the burned-out remains of a frontier cabin. Ever the soldier’s daughter, she analyses their location, notes that it is completely indefensible. The low wooden fence is more to keep livestock in than to keep intruders out.

There’s an acrid smell of smoke in the air, combined with the smell of burned flesh. Alice can barely stomach it—she knows that from the way her head turns away, the way her hand grips on her arm. The three men precede them, exploring the skeleton of the cabin. They gather, speaking low, in a language she cannot understand.

‘What did you say?’ calls Duncan, imperiously.

‘Ottawa, allied to the French. It’s a war party, moving fast.’

‘Let us look after them,’ he says, approaching the bodies.

‘Leave them,’ comes the dismissive response as they turn to walk away.

She is angered by their indifference. Though she, too, is eager to leave, they should do something for the people of this place.

‘Whoever they are, these strangers, they are at least entitled to a Christian burial!’

‘Let us go, miss,’ he says dismissively.

‘I will not! I have seen the face of war before, sir, but I have not seen war made upon women and children. It’s almost as cruel as your indifference,’ she hurls at his back.

He stops, turns, and advances on her, ferocious. Is that grief she sees in his eyes? She steps back involuntarily. ‘Miss Munro. They were not strangers, and they stay as they lay.’ He moves on without another word.

 

In her short time in America she sees that this country, involved so desperately in war, is not at all like the Europe she has left behind. It was as if the war was alive; here, there was something to fight for. A whole unconquered land—the promise of untold riches in the soil, in the forest, in the nascent cities. It is easy to feel lonely here, without the bustle of old, established European cities. It is easy to feel lonely when she is the only person around for miles, save her traveling companions. These forests have never known dense human populations; they seem to her something out of a book, out of the primeval histories of the world. She cannot fathom a time when England looked like this, when the lack of human occupation did not fill the woodlands with the sound and the fury of the hunt or other occupations.

The hunt here is different. She watches Mr. Poe slip away as they tread onwards, returning silently with two rabbits. She heard neither shot nor sound; his reappearance is neither celebrated nor, indeed, marked by anything at all. She wonders how he can move so silently, so comfortably, in this wilderness.

It’s silent, walking on. It seems like they’ve been walking forever in this forest. She knows it’s called the Endless Forest, and she imagines fancifully that they’ve already walked the length and breadth of England. She is anxious, impatient; she wants to get to the fort. And yet there is a calmness within her, as though this walk has finally managed to soothe the boredom and impatience she’s felt all her life.

The sun has not yet started to lower itself in the sky when they stop for the night. She knows that they are stopping because of them; knows, instinctively, that these men could walk through the night without another thought. She would push on, but walking any more today is beyond her sister. Alice is pale and wavering beside her; the sight of the frontier cabin had affected her more than she realized. She settles her sister first, secure beneath the tall tree they have chosen to make their campsite. She walks silently with the older one—Chingachgook—to the creek to fetch water, while Nathaniel and his brother build their campsite. Duncan stays behind, guarding Alice.

There’s not much to eat—their provisions had been in their horses’ saddlebags, were lost to them when they were let loose. Mr. Poe gives them a bar of something he calls _pemmican_ —dried meat and fruit. Alice nibbles at the bar forlornly, takes a sip of water, then lies down and turns on her side, falling asleep quickly. She tries to do the same, but she cannot sleep.

Duncan positions himself near them, to protect them, she thinks. But she does not need his protection. Surely if these men were to do anything they would have done so by now. They would not have wasted their time pretending to lead them to the fort if all they wanted was their scalps. They had not showed compassion to the residents of that cabin, it is true, but that did not mean they were cruel.

As she sits next to Alice, stroking her hair, she fights back her frustration with Duncan, his arrogance, his determination to take care of her. They were in trouble, she knew that. His constant inquiries into her state of being were frustrating and inconsequential. Of course she is not all right! They were set upon and attacked; they could be attacked again at any moment. There’s nothing he can do about it, and she doesn’t want to talk to him any more. Every time he glances at her, gives her a helping hand on their trek, she fights down a feeling of guilt and the growing, sickening knowledge that her plea for time was ignored by him, that he considers them, for all intents and purposes, betrothed.

Sleep eludes her, though her sister’s breathing has long since evened. She remembers times when they had slept out beneath the stars on their father’s estate in Scotland. Alice had never liked those nights much, she remembers. She had reveled in them, longed for them, desperate for the freedom this way of life provided. These men—these curious men—lived this way al the time, presumably. Now that they are resting, her mind not focused on the endless progression forward, she has time to wonder. Mr. Poe is there, in front of her; surely he cannot be so rude as to refuse to answer her questions. She rises from her position next to Duncan, despite his reproachful glance, and seeks him out.

‘Why didn’t you bury those people?’ she asks.

He doesn’t look at her as he responds, ‘Anyone lookin’ to pick up our trail would’ve seen it as a sign of our passing.’

‘You knew them well?’

He looks at her for the first time. He’s not the fierce and ferocious man who had stalked towards her by the cabin; this time she is sure it is grief she sees in the starlight. He nods.

‘You were acting for our benefit and I apologize,’ she replies stiffly, not knowing how to respond to his quiet display of emotion. ‘I misunderstood you.’

‘Well, that is to be expected. My father—’

‘Your father?’

‘Chingachgook. He warned me about people like you.’

‘Oh, he did?’ she asks, slightly offended.

‘Yes. He said, ‘do not try to make them understand you.’’

‘What?’

‘Yes, ‘and do not try to understand them. That is because they are a breed apart and make no sense—’

She exclaims, though she has time to do little else, but they echo in her mind as they hear a rustling in the bushes. There is the gleam of moonlight on a shaved scalp, the slight clack of a wampum belt hitting against the butt of a rifle. He levels out his rifle—she sees the name ‘Killdeer’ carved there. She pulls out the pistol she took from the dead soldier. He looks at her with cool appraisal and hands her the powder horn. She loads her pistol, lining up her shot.

But they retreat quickly, urgent whispers signaling first disagreement and next, compliance, as they fade back into the shadows. They are safe for the moment and now there is time to talk, to ask the questions she needs.

‘Why did they turn back?’ she asks quietly, confused.

‘Burial ground,’ he nods, and she turns, faintly making out the platform nestled high in the trees. She feels an overwhelming sense of anger, suddenly—anger about what had happened to them and to those people in the clearing, and about his earlier words.

‘A breed apart, we make no sense?’

‘In your particular case, miss, I’d make allowance.’

‘Oh, thank you so much.’

He looks at her, and somehow his gaze calms her.

‘Where is your real family?’

She can tell he’s surprised by her question, but he answers readily enough. ‘They buried my ma, pa, and sisters. Chingachgook found me with two French trappers, raised me up on his own.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I don’t remember them. I wasn’t but one or two.’

She feels deeply for him, realizing afresh that this land is so different from the world in which she grew up, that these people are far more complicated than she realized. She won’t misjudge him again.

He tells her about his childhood. He talks to her about the stars, how they were a memorial for all unmarked dead. They were their friends, she learns, although she had expected that response. She learns, too, about those people, the Camerons. That they had gone to that place because it seemed to them like Paradise.

She finds herself needing to say something, to share with him as he has shared with her. ‘It is not how I thought it would be,’ she begins, ‘thinking of it in Boston and London.’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint,’ he replies, and she believes he means it.

‘Oh, on the contrary. It is more deeply stirring to my blood than any imagining could possibly be.’

With that, she turns away from him, unable to look in his eyes and see what she knows will be there. She lays awake for some time, accustoming herself to the new rush of her heartbeat.

She had learned, from her mother’s people, that to sleep next to someone was the greatest form of intimacy, that one’s dreams merged with those of one’s companion and walked with them in the night.

She wakes the next morning knowing that in the night they had shared something. Their relationship—if that was the word for it—had shifted, changed. She knew wasn’t the same person who fell asleep the night before. Every night she slept in the Americas changed her. It’s something in the air, in the water, in the soil. It is also the war, and the liberation of treading on the grounds of what might one day be a new nation. Old prejudices are not in evidence here, as is so clearly evident by their present situation.

But the biggest change had come by sleeping next to Nathaniel. She couldn’t think of him as Mr. Poe any longer; he had walked in her dreams last night.

They press on the next day, barely speaking. She doesn’t know what to say to him. She cannot find anything to say to Duncan, or to her sister either, though Alice grows more and more energetic the closer they get to the fort. Uncas, Chingachgook, and Nathaniel take turns patrolling ahead to make sure nothing will harm them.

They don’t stop at sunset this time, but press on, because they are close to the fort and Nathaniel said it wouldn’t matter if they approached at dark. It saved their lives, she realizes later—they could see the bombs fired by the French at the fort.

‘What do you want to do?’ Nathaniel asks her.

‘I don’t think the women should approach,’ Duncan says, assuming the question is addressed to him.

‘Miss Munro,’ Nathaniel presses, raising an eyebrow.

‘We must get inside. There must be a way. We can’t go back now.’ It’s true—there’s nowhere else to go but forward.

‘I don’t think you know what you are saying—’ Duncan says, and she glares at him, frustrated, once again, by his complete inability to curb his protective instincts.

Nathaniel turns to his brother and father, says something to them in Mohican, before turning back to her. ‘All right. We’ll bring you in. Stay close, now.’


	2. Chapter Two

She first notices the sound. It’s deafening; it dulls the rest of her senses. She’s experienced this before in the battlefield. She begins to focus when she feels Alice’s hands clutch her waist, nails pressing deep into her skin. Her sister is terrified; Duncan murmurs constantly to them, his eyes watching the men as they scout out a route to the fort.

They are lucky—they find a canoe hidden in the rushes. The men toss their rifles in the belly of the boat and help the three of them in, quickly. Uncas and Chingachgook enter the water first, Nathaniel pushing the canoe from behind. They slip silently into the water, though even if they made noise, it wouldn’t matter. There’s no possibility anyone can hear anything.

When she closes her eyes she can see explosions of light from the bombs. She can feel her bones rattle. It’s all around her, this war; she’s in the middle of it and nothing, no one, exists outside of it.

It is almost unbelievable that they are here, in New York and not in London. She would never have thought it. But they are here now—in the middle of the lake, racing against time and the battle raging in front of them. Austria was nothing compared to this—it was decorous in comparison to what is in front of her.

The men are familiar with the lake and are able to steer them safely onto the island. She reaches down and touches Nathaniel’s hand, comfortingly close; he looks up at her for a moment—only a moment, but it’s enough.

They land on the island and are immediately surrounded by a British patrol, their red uniforms standing out even amidst the smoke. Duncan stands, rocking the canoe dangerously as he steps onto the land.

‘Take us to the Colonel. I’m Major Duncan Heyward and these are the Colonel’s daughters.’

She looks back towards him as they are rushed into the fort, begging him to follow. They do; they are close at her heels as they step into her father’s office. The men of the fort cry out to her companions; she looks back and stumbles as she’s pushed forward into the centre of the fort. An explosion rocks the fort while still in the open courtyard; she reaches for her sister, all thoughts gone except for that basic one—protect Alice, something she had promised her father long ago.

And then he is there, in front of them, his wig slightly askew, his face angry.

‘Girls—why are ye here? And where the hell are my reinforcements?’

His anger, his tension, is evident as he wraps his arms around them, and she looks back at Nathaniel, confused and scared. His face is impassive and she knows not what he is thinking, cannot even fathom a guess. They follow her inside.

‘I told ye to stay away—why did ye disobey me, girls?’ the Colonel asks—she can’t help but think of him as such, right now, for he is not her father when he is like this. She can tell he is attempting, unsuccessfully, to temper his anger.

‘When—how?’

‘My letter.’

‘There was none.’

‘What?’

‘There was no letter!’

‘I sent three couriers to Webb,’ he states, turning to Duncan for confirmation. His anger is directed at beings other than them, now, and she relaxes slightly.

‘One called Magua arrived,’ Duncan replies.

‘He delivered no such message,’ she adds.

‘Does Webb not even know we have a siege?’

‘Sir, Webb has no idea. And he certainly does not know to send reinforcements.’

The Colonel’s face falls as he realises what has happened.

‘What happened to you?’ his voice is softer, now, and he takes Alice’s hand.

‘On the George Road,’ Duncan explains. ‘Attacked.’

‘We’re fine,’ she says, wanting to alleviate one worry, at least.

‘Are you all right?’ Alice asks, sounding stronger than she has since they left Albany.

‘Yes.’

‘What will _happen_ here, Papa?’

He doesn’t answer the question as he draws her into her embrace. ‘It’ll be all right, girl.’

And then the men talk—well, Duncan talks to her father, and the others stand back in the shadows, speaking only to ask for powder and food. She notes the way Uncas is standing, favouring his left side; he’s been wounded. Alice is a trembling form beside her, a shadow of herself. She knows that she longs to run to their father, to be told, again, that everything will be all right. She wants to hear the same, though she knows that even if the words come once more, they won’t be true.

The conversation ends almost before it begins with the arrival of Mr. Phelps, the physician. She is relieved to see him, almost happy that some normalcy will be restored to her life. She knows what to do in the infirmary—she can start by changing into proper clothes and getting to work.

‘Go with your sister, Alice,’ her father says, then, ‘It’ll be all right, girl; it’ll be all right.’

She knows that it won’t.

 ***

It’s much better after she changes into clean, dry clothes. They are quite unlike her refined silks, but the cotton is smooth and light against her skin, and the skirt is far more practical than even her travelling outfit. She assumes her competency in the infirmary like a familiar set of clothes—slightly worn, but comfortable and familiar. Uncas is there, trying to clean his wound.

‘Let me do that,’ she says, approaching him. He sits down and relaxes when he sees that she is comfortable here, that she knows what she is doing. She is brisk, firm, efficient as she stitches up his wound, her attention focused solely on that. When Mr. Phelps calls her name, she looks up from her work, still mentally involved in her work.

‘Miss Cora—gentleman looking for you.’

She starts slightly when she sees Nathaniel, who acknowledges her with a nod of her head and ‘Miss Munro.’ She turns back to her work, every particle of her attention suddenly fixated on him, rummaging on the shelf behind her, and not on the man in front of her.

‘May I?’ he asks, and she turns around, seeing him hold up a roll of silk. She nods, and attempts to refocus on Uncas as he cuts off a length from the roll.

‘It will seep, and then it’s going to draw,’ she tells Uncas, tying a bandage around his waist.

‘Thank you, miss,’ he replies, adjusting the bandage a bit for ease of movement.

When Nathaniel enters, she starts, slightly, as he speaks.

‘You ’bout done holding hands with Miss Munro?’ Nathaniel asks. ‘We’ve got some work to do.’

Uncas nods, slides off the table, and begins to ready his belongings.

She watches Nathaniel, then returns to her work. She senses him watching her, and she looks up, seeing him watch her openly. She is disconcerted, though she doesn’t want him to see her discomfort at being regarded so frankly. She gathers her courage and looks up, meeting his gaze defiantly.

‘What are you looking at, sir?’

‘Why, I’m looking at you, miss,’ he replies, and she’s shocked to the very fibre of her being. She lowers her eyes, fighting down a blush, and she feels a warmth grow within her. When she looks up again, he is still watching her with the same intensity.

Looking at him, like this, is almost unbearable—she’s filled with such a longing and a knowledge that she’s always feared she would never know. She wants him. She knows now what books mean when they say ‘she was overcome with desire,’ knows, at last, what is meant by ‘falling in love.’ She sees something in him that calls out to her—she knows that she’s being foolish, that she should feel this way for Duncan, and not for Nathaniel—a man about whom she knows very little, and not one she knows so well. But she can’t help it.

She smiles, involuntarily, and he returns it, a smile of such warmth that his face is transformed, and she knows now that she could never want another, no matter who he is, who she is—none of that matters, not now.

He turns and moves away gracefully, his companion following him, and her eyes trace his movements until he is out of sight.


End file.
